


To Our Hearts

by Blacktablet (Ishamaeli)



Series: People Populate the Darkness (A Sherlock/American Gods Crossover) [1]
Category: American Gods - Neil Gaiman, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Graphic Sex, Kink Meme, M/M, NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:16:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishamaeli/pseuds/Blacktablet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a man, and a god fell in love with him. “That is the tale; the rest is detail.” (<a href="http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/5516.html?thread=11173772#t11173772">prompt</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Our Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> You don’t need to have read American Gods to get the story – only understand that people’s belief creates and nourishes gods.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Sherlock and John in their current incarnation belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC. American Gods belongs to Neil Gaiman. The quotes in the summary and at the end are from American Gods.

John wasn’t surprised when Sherlock told him that he was a god.

John wasn’t surprised to hear that Sherlock was a god, which probably told something about his mental state and why he had needed a therapist in the first place. He didn’t even bat an eyelid when, after they had taken that giant tiny step and gone from friend-colleagues to uhm-wells, Sherlock haltingly told John that he was not human.

That he was, in fact, a god.

“Oh,” said John, fingers still absently petting Sherlock’s hair where the man was lying comfortably on him and resting his head on John’s chest. “Sorry, come again?”

Sherlock frowned at John’s pectorals. “I know that it sounds like a perfectly reasonable bizarre delusion—“ He paused abruptly.

“Heaven forbid bizarre delusions being unreasonable,” John agreed amicably. He got a heavy sigh in response, a gust of warm air that sent shivers down his spine when it hit the cooling sweat on his skin.

“John…”

Sherlock sounded more apprehensive than exasperated. John took pity on him. “So you think you’re a god,” he confirmed, gaze fixed to the pristine white ceiling of Sherlock’s room.

“No,” and there was the familiar thread of frustration laced in Sherlock’s voice, roughened by loudly calling out John’s name earlier. “I said I _am_ a god. There is a difference.” Pale green glared at him briefly before Sherlock closed his eyes once more.

 _A difference between mental and completely bloody mental?_ he wondered and his fingers stilled. “Sherlock...”

“You were raised Anglican but you’re not particularly religious,” the familiar rapid-fire deduction cut him off. “If anything, what you saw in Afghanistan crushed any belief you had in benevolent gods. Harry is into mediums and astrology but you’ve always scoffed at that, thinking that the only thing those practices are good for is conning gullible fools out of their money.”

John tried to come up with the exact number of times he had been surprised by Sherlock’s deductions about himself, but he couldn’t even remember when he had stopped being annoyed by them. “True. Although I hear I’m a fairly typical ram.”

“Aries,” Sherlock corrected him absent-mindedly. “The ram is a Chinese sign. They’re not alike at all.” He lifted his head to look John in the eye, his grip on the other man’s good shoulder tightening. “I’m not a very benevolent god, John. Could you find it in yourself to believe in me? If only a little?”

There was something at once desperate and hungry in his expression. A few hours ago, Sherlock had looked at John with a similar darkening of his eyes and an undisguised need lurking in the corners of his mouth, in the way his fingers had twitched in anticipation before he had allowed himself to touch John. It had been intoxicating to be on the receiving end of that.

It was just as intoxicating now, and John’s rational side was fighting a losing battle. “But a god, Sherlock? You—you have a brother.” John’s breath hitched when Sherlock nipped the edge of his jaw. “Who is concerned. About you.”

“Why are we discussing Mycroft again?” Sherlock inquired and moved his attentions to John’s ear, carefully laving the outer edge of the shell with soft flickers of his tongue and sucking sloppily on the lobe before letting it go with a pleased hum that had John’s blood rushing south. “He is an only child, if you really must know. I merely employ him.”

“C-concerned?” John closed his eyes, unable to stand the sight of Sherlock’s long neck stretched out before him without being able to put his mouth on it. He wanted to know. “I thought gods are immortal?”

The blasted man _breathed_ thoughtfully in his ear and John let out a moan, felt his cock take keen interest in what was happening.

“We feed on belief, sleep cocooned in faith,” Sherlock told him, his voice hushed as he let his lips brush the sensitive skin at John’s temple. “We hear when we are called but we don’t always answer, not even when we perhaps should, and that costs us. No, John, we are definitely not immortal.”

John tried to draw Sherlock down into a kiss, using his grip on the man’s dark hair and a guiding hand on his shoulder, but Sherlock resisted. “What are you, then?” asked John in a frustrated tone and opened his eyes.

Sherlock appeared to shine, illuminated by early morning light. “Gods,” he replied as if the word encompassed all John needed to know – it probably did, he’d figure it out later – and slid back into the tight heat of John without warning.

Even though John was still loose from the last time, not too long ago, he was not loose enough; there was pain alongside the pleasure. The sharp double-sensation caused his brain to short-circuit and he instinctively drew up his knees, making room for Sherlock, accepting the intrusion. Above him, Sherlock hissed and slowed down to give him time to adjust.

Sherlock started rocking deeper in small movements, sweat beading on his forehead from the effort of holding himself back, when John sighed and relaxed, hands sliding up to grab the pillow under his head. It hadn’t been that long since the last time they had sex, a few hours at most, but the slow build-up still felt incredibly good. John’s breath caught when Sherlock’s cock nudged his prostate, sending a flash of pleasure through him. His own cock was trapped between them, the friction only strengthening the intense feeling until John felt he was trapped in an unending loop of arousal.

“Sherlock,” he gasped warningly when the movement stopped all of a sudden. “Not now, you can’t—“

“Have faith in me, John,” Sherlock whispered feverishly, kissed John and left him panting, bruised lips shining with saliva. “Believe in me, and no other god. I will guard you, keep you safe, take you with me. The only thing I ask in return is that you believe in me.”

Sherlock buried his head in John’s neck, his breath hitching, and John almost missed the quiet ‘adore me’ that was muttered into hot skin before Sherlock bit down hard, made John growl and buck under him.

John could feel the mark, the _brand_ burning when Sherlock pulled away, and the thought of it aroused him more than it probably should have. He could only imagine what the bruise would look like, how long it would take for it to fade.

“It won’t.” Sherlock visibly forced himself to lean back a little. John followed him with parted lips, desperate for another kiss, heady and intoxicating like good mead. “It will fade, of course, but I’ll do it again. Elsewhere, if you’d like, but you’d better get used to carrying that.”

“I didn’t even say yes to anything,” John pointed out and bit his lip when Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow at him. The bite mark throbbed on his neck. “Damn you,” he hissed after a pause, spread his legs less than subtly and looked away, flushing with humiliation. “Damn you, damn you, damn you. _Yes_ , then!”

There was a gentle cheek pressing against his, a warm kiss dropped on his forehead. “I had already deduced it,” Sherlock confessed apologetically before thrusting forward and muffling John’s throaty moan with his mouth.

He fucked John ruthlessly, the thrusts of his hips a steady _mine mine mine mine mine_ to the frantic _yes yes god yes Sherlock yes yours always yours_ of John’s hands as they roamed over his body. Blunt fingernails scratched at his back, moved lower where wide palms cupped his arse, leaving bruises shaped like fingertips on pale skin.

John took hold of Sherlock’s head with both hands, forced him down into a messy kiss that was more tongue and teeth than lips. “You want to own me,” he mouthed on Sherlock’s lower lip and caught it between his teeth, kissed Sherlock’s distinctive Cupid’s bow.

“I already do,” Sherlock groaned, pale and lithe and gorgeous above him, and ran a possessive hand down John’s flank.

“I’m yours,” said John, hips now snapping up to meet every thrust, Sherlock’s sweat dripping on him. “I always had faith in you.” He licked his lips, drew his hand down Sherlock’s chest to wrap it around his own cock. Now that the idea had been presented to him he could easily see it, see how Sherlock could be a god. Not a very old god, no, but new, someone who was desperate to continue existing and needed people…

Or perhaps just one.

“I believe in you,” said John, and came.

Sherlock made a choked, surprised sound mid-thrust; his eyes went wide right before he suddenly threw his head back with a shout and spilled his seed into John. He then slumped on him, boneless and only half-conscious, with his eyes closed and every muscle relaxed.

John’s blue eyes were a bit unfocused as he moved the taller man so that he was only half-lying on John. He attempted to wake Sherlock up by slapping his shoulder gently, not afraid, _per se_ , but concerned nonetheless. “Sherlock? Hey, Sherlock... You alright?”

A smile appeared on the thin lips; he was alright then. With what was apparently a great effort, Sherlock turned his head so that he could nuzzle the mark on John’s neck and make him gasp. “’M fine,” he murmured and tongued the mark experimentally.

“God!” Warmth spread through John at the action, enveloping his whole body; he felt like he was floating, happy, high on pure endorphin. He pushed back into the touch and strongly suspected that if he were a cat, he’d have been purring louder than a small car right then. He wondered if he would always react to Sherlock touching the bruise like that – if indeed the bruise would always be there.

The smile on Sherlock’s lips widened and John could feel him shiver with pleasure. “That’s the idea,” he murmured, long limbs and hard angles settling around John until Sherlock had him in a tight embrace. “That tells _everyone_ that you are mine, John.” Something dark flashed momentarily across his features. “Even— _Especially_ Moriarty.”

John immediately noticed the strange emphasis. “Everyone? You mean there are more? Is Moriarty…?”

Sherlock scoffed like he usually did when John stated the obvious. “People believe in so many things,” he explained curtly.

Exhausted and sleepy, John decided to investigate the matter later and shook off the cold dread creeping into his mind. He knew that Sherlock would evade his questions and discourage any attempts at finding out more; knew what would happen because Sherlock wanted to take Moriarty down by himself.

They would bicker; John would threaten to leave, Sherlock would make scathing remarks about ownership, and then they’d compromise and make up and the mark on John’s neck would be more livid than ever for weeks afterwards. Sherlock would look at John like he was looking at him now, contemplative and curious and _fond_ , and somehow he had always looked like a modern god of curiosity or crime scene investigating or being intolerably intelligent, more than he had ever looked like a man. And it might take them years but eventually they would track down Moriarty, and they would kill him to make sure that others were safe.

John decided that none of it sounded too bad

He eventually fell asleep to the sound of Sherlock’s breathing, and dreamt of giant birds with lightning in their wings.

  
  
  


 _"Gods are great," said Atsula, slowly, as if she were imparting a great secret. "But the heart is greater. For it is from our hearts they come, and to our hearts they shall return."_


End file.
